Tag: stories

JAY ZZZ The rapper now known as Jay ZZZ was born Clifford O’Dell in Surrey, England in 1969. At age 5 he was involved in a car accident when his father Nigel (from Cornwall) and mother Mama (from the Republic of Togo) got into a heated argument over bagel spreads, and so crossed the line into the right lane (and oncoming traffic.) After extensive plastic surgery Cliff was adopted by William Cartwright (a plastic surgeon), and taken to Brooklyn (after a retirement vacation to Nevada.) There he was influenced by Nigel’s other son Derek (whose white mother Yolanda was a failed poet and successful laundress, and had moved there several years prior.) Derek was a writer of experimental fiction, and had even published a story in a literary magazine (of 400 circulation) on his three hundred eighty seventh attempt. Derek killed himself by hanging, but made it look like an accident. Yolanda hung herself too, not long afterward, but made it look like Cliff did it. Cliff managed to get away, and got a job in the Skylight Grill washing dishes (and money) for Simon “Bubby” Malone. While living in the basement, he wrote experimental fiction and tried getting it published in eighty different literary magazines without luck until one day Quincy Jones came down, looking for the restroom, and read one of his stories while on the john (the toilet itself being Cliff’s desk.) Scaring the crap out of youngster on emerging, Quincy apologized, then suggested Cliff change his name and write lyrics instead. Eight months later, without Quincy’s further help, ZZZ had an agent and a limo driver. Hence, the oft repeated comment heard from ZZZ while drunk, “Quincy saved my life.” This also explains why, if driving himself, he stays to the left, and never eats Nutella. Quincy denies the incident occurred, but then he’s getting on in years and is losing his memory. As evidence for this account, here’s the opening of one of ZZZ’s stories, released now for the first time:.“Yo Mama Blue” by Clifford D. O’Dell

“A crimson reticulate melds circumstance with affable malaise as Roderick positions equinoxes into interstadial events like polar supply chains.” “What the hell was that???” demands Simon Cowell of the American Idol contestant. “I wanted to utter a sentence so original that it will never be repeated again in the history of television.” “Oh.” “Aren’t you going to say something witty about my song choice?” “I’m speechless.” “Okay, well let me help. ‘My glabrous thought veins skein into my narcosis like chiasma crossing filaments of joy toward an exuberant effluvium.'” “Can you say, ‘I’m insane?'” “Can you say, ‘I’m boring?'”

Twit-R-Us

I love Twitter and I cannot lie,
Tweeting Tweets by de gross on da fly.
Gots no time ta reads no book
Insta-wham me selfies—look!

psychics are fake news.

The numbers don’t lie. The odds are stacked against you. From birth. LOL. Actually, the Powerball has one good outcome: it proves that psychics are fake news, and the TV show Supernatural is ridiculous.

.

Boldness is a required trait to make it as a peeper for a pulp paper. You need to possess certain acting skills that would preclude you from an otherwise natural tendency to look over your shoulder, and draw suspicion. The best approach is a direct one, projecting that you belong where you do not. For this job, those in awe of celebrity and wealth need not apply. Let them be the readers rather than the writers of half truths, innuendoes, and postulations about whether some privileged headcase ‘hotsie totsie’ is doing their kid’s nanny, downing Ecstasy pills like dinner mints, or dying of some rare tropical disease. For my part, I no longer had time to be in awe of anyone. And anyway, I knew the rich and famous didn’t get that way by magic. Entry into their class has certain requirements, too. Besides winning the gene pool lottery with well-connected parents, these required traits include unbounded ambition, a lack of inhibition, a young and trim physique, a first-name grasp of the “in” and “it” crowd, acting ability during interviews and required awards shows, street smarts, a trust fund, an ego-driven myopia, and luck. Or any three of the above.
—I am feeling giddy, if not lucky, as I hoof imperiously past the little sign Guests Only Beyond This Point. Neglecting to wave at the security camera, I just give it my best George Clooney smile. . . this, while my lopsided but self confident demeanor suggests Chris Tucker in a Rush Hour sequel.
—Needing a prop to make it through the pool area and into the elevator, I purchase a ten dollar raspberry daiquiri at the bar, discard the straw, down half of it immediately, and set off past the buffet where chefs in ridiculous hats serve prime rib and roast rack of lamb to unsmiling people in Gucci loafers and sandals. I draw a few stares from men with pony tails, but I decide that each of them is no one important, this season. To wit, no one on the hotel security staff. This gives my smile just the snooty edge it needs.
—As I stroll nonchalantly past the pool area, I draw a complimentary embossed towel from a stack of them, then drape it across my shoulder, and continue on. When I detect other eyes focused upon me, I wave at someone at the other end of the figure-eight shaped Olympic sized pool, over where the swim-up bar is. The old fart must know another pudgy Nolte lookalike, or maybe he needs cataract surgery, because he waves back.
—The elevator is next, just past the Grecian fountain where a scantily clad and muscular youth made of marble attempts to drain his endless urn–or maybe his bladder–by holding it tilted from his waist. Alone inside the cool metal cubicle at last, I then hesitate pushing the button marked PENTHOUSE because of the camera monitor in the corner, which gazes at me like the red eye of a Hal 9000. Or rather a Sal 5000.What to do?
—Bravely, I sneeze and punch the button anyway, going for distraction in the hope that my doubling over gives me the benefit of a mistake. Unfortunately, nothing happens. The button is depressed, but the elevator does not move. Have they disabled it somehow, and are they now moving in to bounce me like a lush who’s just touched a table dancer’s tit?
I try depressing the button just below PENTHOUSE. Thankfully, there is an engagement, and the elevator finally starts to rise. On my way up I then begin to wonder if the saying about its being lonely at the top is true, or if whoever wrote the saying is now either working for Vanity Fair or for “The Donald” in that gaudy mirror maze known as the Trump Tower penthouse.
—Floor twelve is the end of the line. For me, anyway. There is no floor thirteen, and no way to go higher without Charlize Theron or Salma Hayek on my arm. So I get out. The elevator indicator in the hallway has a down arrow only, and I suspect that the purpose for the keypad I glimpse above the main control panel is to enter a code, which can be changed each time a new guest rents the paradise above.
—Briefly I peek into the stairwell, and indeed see a chain that blocks the way up, with another security camera guarding what is surely a locked door up there. I speculate how long I might have to wait in the twelfth floor hallway before hearing the elevator go higher in response to a call, at which point I might push my own call button as well, and join Howard–if it is really Howard–going down. The figure that comes to me is six hours minimum, until nightfall. Or possibly seventy-two hours plus six until Howard goes stir crazy again. Meanwhile, I have maybe ten minutes before security comes for me, probably in response to a hotel guest’s sighting a deranged killer in the hallway through their door’s peephole. All of which presupposes, of course, that whoever is monitoring the video displays has, in fact, gone to take a piss while I fondle the elevator controls. No doubt if I now break into some room in search of a way to climb verandahs on the outside of the building, they will put me in a straight jacket instead of handcuffs.
—And so it appears not to be my lucky day, once again.
Or so I imagine.
—What happens next is beyond luck. Meaning it could only be fate. It happens like this: I had decided to try asking for Howard at the front desk. The direct approach. If the response was “Howard?” it would tell me one thing. If it was “we can’t give out information about our guests” it would tell me another. Maybe then I could decide if I was wasting my time, and also whether I should waste Sal’s money on filet mignon and Chateau Lafite Rothschild 1958. So I call for the elevator. I enter. As the door slides closed, just for fun, I punch some digits into the keypad, and depress PENTHOUSE.
—Then the elevator begins to move. . .Up.
—I suck in a breath and hold it. Then I laugh despite myself, because the numbers I have just punched are 1, 5, 1, 2, 3, and 7. The first three numbers of Howard’s now infamous winning lotto are 15, 12, and 37.
—I cover my mouth with one hand as the door slides open again. Then I step out quickly, and am faced by a heavy wooden door in an alcove portico. The little gold plaque reads PRIVATE. On either side of the door stand two black marble swans. The carpet is white and plush. There is no security camera, and I know why. Because the thing about rich people is that they love their privacy, unless they make their money from the masses, in which case they really love their privacy. Management knows this, and so as long as said god or goddess continues to pay their tab and tip well, they respect any bitchy wishes. I might have wondered why Howard didn’t just move to Palm Beach, that more secure haven for multimillionaires and billionaires, but of course I know the reason for that, too. He would simply never be accepted by the social elite there. During the social season he’d be a running joke, with no pedigree or claim to fame other than having picked the right combination of numbers and coming out top pathetic numbnuts. Aristocratic and sophisticated heirs to fortunes from oil and real estate and haute couture were loathe to add anyone to their party lists not already considered “in” by right of birth or conquest. It’s a town where plastic surgeons are thought of as ‘hired help,’ and where the best lawyers are required to do pro boner work. Even Sean Combs was once thrown out of a club after having wandered over from Trump’s Maralago estate, while rich has-been musicians are regularly rebuffed by local cocktail waitresses who have better prospects. How would they treat Howard, those Beluga caviar eggheads whose guest houses made Town and Country? While he might never be hounded by the paparazzi there–because the Palm Beach police stop anyone who doesn’t belong–he’d never get a membership in the Palm Beach Country Club as a Jew, either. Even at triple the $150,000 fee. Unless he was a headliner Vegas comic. No. In all likelihood, he wouldn’t even be sold a house, and would end up at The Breakers hotel after bribing every member on staff with a new Rolex. Not worth the aggravation.
—So here I am, standing outside the Doral resort’s penthouse, wondering if all this is worth the aggravation. But then I think what the hell. It’s not like I have another hot prospect, or even a luke warm one.
—I step to the door, stretch out one fist, and pound.
—There is a click, and then, without needing to be unlocked, the door suddenly whispers open. . .
—I must have staggered in, because I next find myself standing alone on a white marble foyer floor, looking up at a high sculptured ceiling where a crystal chandelier hangs over a Louis Philippe trundle day bed in the living room. The Steinway baby grand piano beside it gleams with an obsidian gloss under the multifaceted light.
—“Hello?” I call, and get no answer.
—For a moment I half expect some vacationing socialite to appear–perhaps Rene Wyatt in a Bill Blass gown with a Craig Drake diamond choker and a Cartier watch. And she would no doubt ask me if I’d like to join her for Kirsch flavored vanilla cream and pan fried apricots, prepared by her personal pastry chef Renoire.
—But when neither Rene nor Michael Dell, (much less Oprah Winfrey), appear to tell me about dinner with Oscar de la Renta at Kensington Roof Garden, I begin to feel the knot in my stomach tighten like the invisible noose around my neck.
“Hello!” I call again, even louder. “Mister Rosen?”
—With suicidal recklessness, I step toward the bedroom, past an elaborate black marble and glass bar bearing several ornate lead crystal rocks glasses. One of the glasses is a quarter full of diluted whiskey, amid which floats the remnants (just a half moon sliver, really) of an ice cube.
—I knock on the bedroom door. “Howard?”
—Still no answer. I step to one side before turning the doorknob, in case a gun is trained on the opening. I turn the knob, and push the door wide. There is utter silence, unless you count the rough thud of my heart every half second.
I peek quickly, like an infantryman does when he scouts for a sniper. Then I bring in my flank.
—The room is clear of hazards, except for a man’s Bertolucci watch on the teak dresser. It’s a hazard because any moment the police will be here to arrest me for breaking its restraining order.
—“It’s just me–hotel security,” I say aloud to anyone who might be hidden in the walk-in closet, one hand over the mouth of a Kerry Blue Terrier named Filbert or Fifi.
—Nothing. I move to the closet’s accordion doors, past the canopied king size bed with its mussed red silk sheets. An original oil painting near the closet portrays a Hinckley yacht docked in Martha’s Vineyard. I imagine Martha Stewart in the closet, now, clutching a sharp cleaver.
—“Oh, shit,” I say, at last, and then simply throw the doors wide to see. Just as I do, though, (to find no Cesare Paciotti boots, no women’s clothes at all, but rather a man’s), I hear the entry door in the other room slam shut. This is followed by the distinctive sound of a deadbolt being thrown.
—Do you really think me that deadbolt dumb? Sal had asked me. It’s a question I now ask myself as I tiptoe back into the living room to find a short, middle-aged man with platinum blond hair turning to face me with a bag of ice. I focus on his face as all four of our eyes widen in shock–his with terror, mine with vague recognition.
—“I’m. . . here to fix the ice machine,” I manage to say.

And what would that be: the Umbrella Corporation? No, how about animal rescue and news about animals being slaughtered (including dogs.) Creatures being saved from being skinning alive for furs, electrocuted for Electoral College votes, and kicked or pitch-forked by slaughterhouse workers because cameras are not allowed inside, and no local or national TV news crew will ever follow up on reports, like one in which Brown meats caused the shutdown of a middle school due to a “horrid smell.” (Their spokesman came out to say, “We’ll use a different chemical next time,” and that was enough for reporters. No “what caused the smell?” or “what kind of chemicals are you using on kids?” Don’t ask, don’t tell. They slaughter lambs. Silence of the Lambs?) Interesting facts: 1) people love bacon, and The Baconator is advertised as something you should want to eat. But pigs are as intelligent as dogs, and are sensitive to abuse, which they receive in tight pens causing sores, or are bashed against the wall and left to die covered in flies. By the thousands. 2) Cows are sacred in India, while people think nothing of eating Lassie or Fido in parts of Asia. 3) Meat consumption is highest in the good old USA, as is Alzheimers and dementia, caused by too much iron and protein. (Read The Mind Span Diet by a genetics researcher at Harvard, whose team discovered that in places like Japan and China and Italy, where “iron fortified” or “enriched” does not appear, and people eat less meat, there is far less dementia and heart disease.) 4) Our dogs eat better than our kids. Dog food is touted as “grain free” (free range beef or lamb or chicken) while kids beg their parents to take them to McDonalds due to endless ads and cute toys and the Hamburglar robbing their futures. Those animals either never see the light of day (chickens, except on the way to slaughterhouses), or beef patties (ground together from over a hundred animals which are fed grain by 95% of fast food end games.) The meat is less healthy, too, because it has far fewer nutrients than grass fed. Add to this Coke, which turns good fats bad, and you have a recipe the pharmaceutical giants love most: higher profits for their already rich stockholders snorting coke on their yachts. 5) Hey, it’s a cruel world, buyer beware? The buyer is lied to, spied on, and doesn’t read anything but Tweets. Here’s a question for anyone asking that: “Are you a sociopath? Maybe defect to North Korea and join the herd of fellow Brandwashed lemmings?” Sure, Kim will serve barbecued dissidents for you. While laughing. 6) The Coffee Party. Think about it. A third party which does exist, but nobody talks about. What are they about? Talking, finding solutions, moving forward, not back to the Dark Ages, where ISIS and the Flat Earth Society live. Why? Because, although in any food fight (or nuclear conflict) there are never more than two sides on the killing fields, it’s time to WAKE UP. (…Of course the NFL Dioceses doesn’t care, they are busy discussing plays and “wins,” not soon-to-be Walking Dead brain concussions. “Let the games begin! But first, let us prey.” Insert overflying military jets over budget by billions, and obsolete.) By the way, did you know that light roast coffee is 20 times better for you than dark roast? I didn’t, until I read The Coffee Lovers Diet, by a former science correspondent for a major network. Dark roast beans contain carcinogens from being burnt, and less antioxidants. Been drinking the stuff or years. And used to listen to Rush Limbaugh too, drinking his Kool-aid. Huh. Learn something every day. Live and learn. ABC: “This just in. Sunny skies over Cleveland today, as a SWAT team burst into the home of Willard Webber, a 50 year old college dropout hooked on crack and jelly beans. Twenty-two abused animals were given fresh air for the first time in years, freed from the hellish smells and body odors emanating from Willard’s bedroom, and the cages. Dogs, cats, snakes, an ocelot, a monkey, and a tattooed potbellied pet pig named Tootsie were resuscitated, fed, watered, and bathed. Their eyes have lost the lost look, and now shine with promise, hope. …Something the Soup Nazi at a Virginia soup kitchen is against, shouting ‘No Hope for you!’”

Which inspired which, which is better, what is the genre, and which is based on a book? What is the as-yet unfilmed sequel to that book, and who wrote it?

Once upon a time a family of wandering gypsies arrived in America by way of steamer from Istanbul, and later, by banana boat from Costa Rica. The clan was headed by Haggar Deplorable of the Hungarian Deplorables, a stout, red faced man with big hands and a devious heart. His wife Rubellah loved those big hands, and placed her trust in them because they never failed her. Haggar’s hands were big enough to hide wallet leather, strong enough to force any hinge, and yet delicate enough to carry crystal or fine gold necklaces back across any threshold. Although the knuckles of the right hand were callused from striking the bony jaws of many an interloper, no one could help but admire the stealth and consummate skill with which those hands moved. Legends are born of less. —Rubellah was just as impressive herself, but with her it was her eyes. Dark, penetrating, almost hypnotic in their effect, Rubellah’s eyes could hold the gaze of any others just long enough. Then, with a swish of long black braids, bound by golden bands, she would be on her way again, a little richer for the encounter. Besides man and matriarch, there were sons and daughters numbering four each. Stone Deplorable was the bald one since birth, but he made up for his unusual genetic condition by growing hair almost everywhere else. His thick, coarse chest hair had, on first sight, an animal attraction to women, and his marital engagements and subsequent disappearances averaged ten a year. Stone was bold, unlike his brother Jacob. Jacob was the one trained to fit through tight openings, late at night. He had to be coaxed early, and later used a penlight. Jacob would not participate in any daylight escapades, such as those perpetrated by Igor and his brother Ahab, who were the identical twins and bungling comics of the clan, and who would often approach a seated mark from either side as Stone moved in from behind with the ether-drenched handkerchief. —Of the daughters, Ruth was the only homely one. She kept the books, invested the family earnings, and dabbled in the market. Her sister Salome, however, looked like she’d stepped out of a Botticelli painting. Voluptuous, volcanic, verbose, she exuded despicable passions from every pore, and went through men like a diva goes through chocolates. Meanwhile, Beulah was merely flirtatious, beguiling by comparison; she posed and accessed while Salome pounced. Finally, Caprice also liked to flirt, but she did not possess Beulah’s detachment, and so often needed to be extricated from amorous situations by Stone’s intervention and wrestling technique. All four sisters were blessed with their mother’s long dark hair and hypnotic eyes. —Several years before its demolition the family moved into the projects in Brooklyn just long enough to establish residency, U.S. citizenship, and to play the welfare roles. Jacob obtained SSI disability payments for his timidity and frail looks, and all the “children” got allowances for food stamps which were later sold on the street at the usual discounts. As it turned out, they did not need to lie very much, and Haggar even went for worker’s compensation by claiming a fictitious slump in “intrapersonal lifestyle analysis.” Soon after, they set up a mail drop, scored one final fake drug bust on the building’s pushers, and moved uptown into Trump Tower, which had excellent Hispanic room service. —“This was a real adjustment for us,” Igor later confided to a cab driver. “Since poppa was getting older, and found it harder to work with his hands, we hired tutors to teach us proper grammar and etiquette. Hotel employees who’d complained when they heard Hungarian folk music and Liszt Rhapsodies echoing through the cooling ducts decided they could tolerate us when we stopped singing and dancing, and started tipping. Guests were not so sure. Once I was on the elevator during a psychologists convention and got asked if I thought what we were doing was wrong. After pressing the hold button I explained to a curious shrink what poppa had always taught us, which is that God created us the way we are, so He must rejoice when we do what we do. Then I asked what he knew, and demanded payment for my session, refusing to release the hold button until I was given a Ulysses S. Grant, although I settled for a Jackson and a Lincoln, which was all the bum had. After that I started dressing differently too, and began to resemble a politician or a game show host. It never occurred to me to question our family philosophy or moral judgment, whatever that means. Like Popeye or The Donald, I yam what I yam.” —The Deplorables all began to wear different hats from that point. Beulah and Jacob ascended into high society, attending arts openings and benefits in order to case the patrons’ jewelry. Salome, finally achieving a modicum of self restraint, was able to play the witty rich divorcee just long enough to lure her gentlemen victims to secluded bedrooms where they were seduced and left exhausted and semi-conscious without their dignity, their Rolexes, or their credit cards. Confiding in Stone, Salome scoffed at marriage. “American millionaires,” she laughed. “No wonder women divorce them. Besides, the only reason to get married in America is to have kids, and I’m sorry, but I haven’t got eighteen years to spare. What if I have quintuplets, or Siamese twins when all I really wanted was a Siamese cat? And what will my baby’s first words be? ‘Wii Wii?’ Get real. Babies don’t come from heaven anymore, anyway. Heaven has been out of babies for quite some time. Then when the kid starts asking Why, what would I tell it? I don’t know Why. To top it off, what if my baby is switched at birth, and I don’t find out until nine years later when someone named Galifianakis shows up, and with a basket?” —Stone responded in kind. “With me, I find I’m often forced to leave Xerox copies of one dollar bills as tips on dinner dates. Afterward I send the women flowers with dead insects in them. If they don’t get the message, I describe my idea of an exciting evening as curling up on the sofa with a book by Kafka while listening to Bach’s Goldberg Variations and eating Fruit Loops straight from the box. If they manage to find me, I disguise our empty refrigerator with plastic roasts purchased from appliance salesmen down on their commissions, and I allow them to discover this while I’m watching Dancing with the Stars and sipping Ovaltine from an elephant-shaped mug.” —Speaking of politics, Igor and Ahab had some misadventures of their own. Identical twins on each side of the game, they raised funds which they also skimmed from both Democrats and Republicans. Their education on the matter was obtained by attending phony real estate seminars run by former televangelists, and taking copious notes on technique. —Ahab: “I told them what they wanted to hear. I defined class envy as something which occurs in people who don’t have any class, liberals as near-sighted people prescribing rose-colored glasses, and high school grads as young punks who can whistle all the top forty tunes but still can’t read their own diplomas. Was I tough on crime? Well, for rape I suggested the perp do a stint as playmate for amorous eight hundred pound gorilla. For DUI the stint would be as a bumper in a bumper car concession run by crazed 8 year olds. For slapping, yelling at, or otherwise preventing a child from learning to speak English and to vote Republican the perp got incarceration for twenty four hours with an abusive life insurance agent suspected of murdering his mother. And just for allowing your kid to watch TMZ on TV as much as he wanted required you to be bound, gagged, and forced to watch House of Cards reruns for two days straight, your eyes stuck open with Crazy Glue.” —Igor: “With the Democrats, I tried to cover myself by taking the rich versus poor debate one giant step forward. I proposed an actual class war by claiming to have inside information that the other side was already mobilizing. For K rations my lower class battalion would have grits, toast, and powdered milk for breakfast, Spam, Coke, and a slice of government cheese for lunch, and tuna casserole, tea, and a dollop of rocky road ice milk for dinner. Of course for the rich it was, I admitted, German Sausage Coquettes, fresh squeezed orange juice, and Belgian waffles for breakfast, Tuscan Veal with pine nuts, Amaretto Custard Cake, and cappuccino with chocolate garnish for lunch, and for dinner it was Roast Rack of Lamb Tiffany, Medallions de Trois Viandes aux Trois Poivron, Fresh Mango Sherbet with coulis of raspberries, and Mouton Rothschild 1938. Unfortunately, I was heckled as any bad stand up comic might be. This wasn’t the kind of reaction I wanted, so I slipped out the back way with as much slush fund money as I could carry.” —There were other failures for the twins. For instance, they later infiltrated the gangs, and attempted to convince various gang leaders of certain credentials, much like a national fraternity official might when visiting a local chapter. They even set up a school, or rather skool, to teach homies the history of gangs which they’d failed to learn. To qualify for GEDs {Gang Education Diplomas} kids were told that it wasn’t enough just to know how to blow smoke rings, or how to walk around with their belts unbuckled and shirt tails out without dropping their baggy pants, or even the proper way to flash “get stuffed” to other gangs in order to provoke a shooting spree. They needed to learn how to fail at everything else in life in order to get into ANGER U, of which the twins were admissions coordinators. —“Unfortunately, we had a high dropout rate,” Igor soon complained. “Many were fascinated at first when we told them CRIPS stood for Class Rebels Immortalizing Paint Spray, but when we said that BLOODS stood for Bitter Lads Objectifying Oppressive Dysfunctional Society no one knew what ‘objectifying’ and ‘dysfunctional’ meant, and then it was too late to change it to Boys Learning Of Oppression, Drugs, and Suicide. So I blurted out something about two splinter groups of the Bloods that went to war–the B Positives and the B Negatives, and who did they think won? Then Ahab, thinking it a good joke, tried to up me by invoking the LORDS, and asking which faction did they think came out on top, the Legion Of Raging Demented Sociopaths or the Lovers Of Really Delicious Shortcake? Alas, our humorless would-be subjects suspected we were dissing them then, and we barely made it out of klass by remembering that we needed to attend the funeral of Bloods impressionist graffiti artist Chico Rameriz, who was killed for having a ‘blue’ period.” —Although the twins did manage to start a gang of their own in Chinatown, that didn’t pan out either. The short lived Kung Yu Gang followed no particular martial arts code, although they had plenty of black belts, purple belts, and quite a few gold chains. To the twins fiscal disappointment, the gang’s rumbles became mainly intermural food fights, pitting the Japanese VS. the Vietnamese, or the Chinese Szechuans VS. the Taiwan Mutant Ninja Tenderloins. For fun the upstart youngsters even vandalized price and options tags at American car dealerships. —Meanwhile Ruth continued to buy Krugerrands, gold stocks, and commodities futures in preparation for the coming economic collapse, which “any fool could see” was inevitable once one of the two candidates set up in the Oval Office. Such became her acumen in international currency exchange that she had three additional phone lines installed into the Trump casino suite where Rubellah had once sung songs of the old country and cooked goulash for Haggar. —“They tried to audit me once,” Ruth confessed to a hotel maid, “but I put the kibosh on that and diverted the audit by slipping an herb concoction into the auditor’s tea which had an aphrodisiac effect. Then I seducing him with what really turned him on–-new ideas for torturing an auditee (or candidate unwilling to release their tax returns for public dissection.) One suggestion I made was that he strap the evasive taxpayer to a Delco battery and jolt the truth out of him for two hours while his property was sold at auction to a bunch of yard sale junkies. The auditor was so excited by my concepts that he had to go back to his office to relieve himself with some day trading.” —For Rubellah’s part, she worked part time as a self employed psychic hotline operator, so she could be near her children. When the kids were out she told fortunes with her crystal ball in the Marriott ballroom. Rubellah relished her job, and often repeated a favorite fortune for people she disliked, which was that their ambulance driver would favor the scenic route. But secretly she also longed for the old days, when her family danced and sang with Bollywood stars. —As for Haggar, he found employment by becoming a reincarnation of The Prophet. Simply by growing a long gray beard and calling himself Ahred Dustafo he was able to make a video tape dispensing Gibranesque wisdom, and was soon asked to speak at prestigious area colleges. This, after trying other unsuccessful boasts, like claiming his grandfather was King of Liechtenstein. —Haggar: “Before I found this particular niche, I was bragging to everybody I met that granny played gin rummy with Queen Victoria, that our family psychiatrist was Freud himself, and that before I was ten I’d been on eighteen boxes of cereal, including Muselix. But then I met a shoe salesman who told me his family was so rich once that even their butler drove a 1936 Auburn Speedster and had a winery in the Napa Valley he’d never seen. I grew tired of my con job after that. And then one day when a hot dog vendor asked me the meaning of life, for some reason I told him I couldn’t tell him or he’d go mad, shave his head, and attack the Pope. Other people asked me even sillier questions, like why I wore a long white robe-–which was better to hide things under–-or why the city of Toledo is considered holy. This was the last straw. It was time to get back to the old ways, to get on the move again, and to find happiness. So Rubellah bought me some Ben Gay for my hands, and we gathered our children together and hit the road. I can’t tell you how good it felt to laugh and sing again as we danced our way across America, doing what we do best in the land of freebies and the home of the Atlanta Braves.” —So confessed Haggar Deplorable in a letter to the Trump Tower doorman, explaining why they’d left, and how much they enjoyed trashing the room and insulting everyone. And to this day it seems that everyone is looking for the clan, because we all need someone to blame. This may also be why politicians on both sides of the debate are suspicious of each other, and why they continue to talk about the despicable Deplorables. —Ryback Solomon